Ruler of the World

sword bit into the man’s skull.

Moments later, Akbar struck at a second man charging down the hill at him but the Bengali ducked and the sword stroke missed. The rider turned to confront Akbar once more. This time, Akbar had the advantage of the slope and before the rider could urge his horse up through the thick black mud towards him, Akbar was on him, battering his lance from his hand with a swing of his sword and then thrusting its sharp blade deep into the man’s groin.

Free of immediate danger, Akbar wiped away some of the sweat dripping down his face with his arm and looked about him. The heavy fighting around Muhammad Beg’s single remaining green banner was now sixty yards to his left. Gesturing to those of his bodyguard who were still with him to follow, Akbar drove the grey onward into the heaving, steaming mass of men and horses. Soon he had broken through the first circle of combatants into a scene of carnage where Muhammad Beg’s charge had been halted by the musketry and cavalry of Shah Daud. The bodies of several horses lay in the mud. Akbar noticed one of them was still kicking its hind legs feebly. Beneath another he recognised the corpse of one of Muhammad Beg’s qorchis — a youth of scarcely more than sixteen whose beardless cheek had been slashed wide open, exposing his jaw bone and perfect white teeth.

Fighting was still going on. Several Bengalis were trying to run through with their lances some of Muhammad Beg’s unhorsed men who seemed to be protecting a mud-covered figure propped, legs widespread, head slumped, with his back against a rock. It was Muhammad Beg himself, Akbar realised with horror. Pushing his mount onwards with even greater urgency towards the combatants, who were too preoccupied with the fighting in front of them to detect his approach, Akbar struck the horse of the nearest Bengali across the rump with the flat of his sword. As he intended, it reared up, throwing its rider, who fell beneath the hooves of Akbar’s own mount.

Next Akbar cut another of the Bengalis, who was about to run one of the qorchis through, across the nape of his neck and he fell forward, losing his grip on his lance. By now, Akbar’s bodyguard had accounted for three more Bengalis and the rest, losing stomach for the fight, were turning to try to ride back up the hill through the clinging mud to the protection of the town’s walls. Only one of them made it, and by the time he did so he had a throwing dagger protruding from the muscle of his upper arm.

Pausing for just a moment, Akbar shouted to one of the qorchis, ‘What happened to Muhammad Beg?’

‘The Bengalis recognised him as a general as he rode beneath our green banners. A musket ball hit him in the shoulder. When he fell from his horse he hit his head and later was wounded by a Bengal lance in the thigh.’

‘Get him back to the hakims as soon as you can. He wouldn’t have lived this long if he wasn’t tough. If anyone can survive those wounds it’s him.’

With that, Akbar urged his blowing horse up the hill towards the town’s barricades. Some of his men had already breached them and were now pushing towards the cluster of houses with the yellow flags, dodging from the shelter of one mean mud hut to another, disturbing a few skinny chickens as they did so. Three of his musketeers were crouching behind the brick wall of a well, resting their muskets on its parapet to steady their weapons to provide covering fire for a colleague who was attempting to drag a wounded comrade behind the shelter of a steaming midden. Eventually he succeeded and the musketeers moved forward again.

Before either they or Akbar could reach the houses above which the yellow flags fluttered — surely Shah Daud’s command post — Akbar saw green banners appearing over the hill behind the houses. His men had clearly breached the barricades in many places and were having much the best of the fighting. A moment or two later three men came out of one of the houses. One advanced, arms raised in surrender, towards Akbar’s men. The two others first deliberately threw down the yellow banners into the mud and then raised their hands. Victory was his, thought Akbar, punching the air above his head with his fist. Realising what was happening, his men too began to cheer with a mixture of elation at victory and relief at survival.

‘Order them to bring Shah Daud to me,’ shouted Akbar. A look of consternation crossed the face of the Bengali to whom the command was given but he disappeared back into one of the houses, dipping his head beneath the low lintel as he entered. No one emerged for some minutes and Akbar was about to order his soldiers to force their way in when a tall, distinguished figure with a long thin face appeared in the doorway and began to walk slowly towards Akbar. When he was about fifteen feet away he prostrated himself in the mud. He was clearly at least twice the nineteen years of age Akbar knew Shah Daud to be.

‘Who are you? Where is Shah Daud? If he’s hiding inside, bring him to me immediately.’

‘I am Ustad Ali, Shah Daud’s maternal uncle. I have been his chief adviser throughout his rising. Mine is the guilt and responsibility. I sent my nephew away in disguise last night when I realised our forces faced defeat, however hard we fought. All his treasure is within these houses and I surrender it, and Bengal, to you on his behalf.’

Akbar gazed out across the Bay of Bengal from the deck of a high-prowed wooden dhow. Having gone to sea on the western ocean he had been seized by the desire to do the same on the eastern and today he was fulfilling that wish. As a sudden warm gust caught the triangular red sail, the ship heaved beneath him and he planted his feet wider apart. It was only a little after midday and the sea shone silver, almost too bright to look upon, but he could taste its saltiness on his lips.

His forces had secured all the major towns and cities of Bengal, and even though they had not yet captured Shah Daud, that would be only a matter of time. Bengal was already his.

That morning he had received more good news in a despatch from Abul Fazl, his chronicler in Agra. The western part of his empire remained peaceful and the construction of Sikri was proceeding apace. Akbar smiled as he watched the waves. It was as if one part of his reign was closing. He had successfully extended his empire beyond his grandfather’s, his father’s and even his own ambitions. Although he would continue to expand his territories, not least to satisfy his followers’ desires for booty and action, his main task now would be to consolidate his rule over his vast dominions. The empire he would one day bequeath his heir must be unassailable. To do that he knew he needed all his subjects — new and old, Hindu or Muslim — to respect him as their ruler rather than resent him as a barbarian conqueror or alien enemy of their faith. It was easier to say than to achieve, but he would rise to this new challenge.

Part III

The Power and the Glory

Chapter 13

City of Victory

‘To honour our great victories in Bengal and Gujarat for posterity, I rename this city “Fatehpur Sikri”, “Sikri, City of Victory”. In future years those who gaze on its high red sandstone walls will remember the Moghul warriors whose deeds it commemorates. All of you here today have shared in those deeds. Your sons, your grandsons and the generations yet unborn will rejoice in the knowledge that your heroic blood runs through their veins also.’ From his carved balcony overlooking the marble Anup Talao — the Peerless Pool whose lotus- strewn waters shone with a metallic brilliance in the late afternoon sun — Akbar, equally brilliant in a diamond- and-ruby encrusted cream silk tunic, looked down on the ranks of his commanders and officers filling the great courtyard, over which vast canopies of green silk had been erected to shade them.

A drawn Muhammad Beg was in the front row, leaning heavily on a carved ebony stick that Akbar had sent him. Thanks to the hakims the old warrior was well on the way to recovery, though his wounds were so severe his long years of campaigning were over. By his side stood Ahmed Khan, his long wispy beard for once carefully combed, the bulky, red-turbaned figure of Raja Ravi Singh and Akbar’s brother-in-law Raja Bhagwan Das of Amber wearing diamonds in his ears, his favourite triple-stranded pearl necklace round his neck